


the back row of your mind

by halfmoonsevenstars



Category: Generation Kill
Genre: F/F, M/M, always a girl!Ray plus always a girl!Brad
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-01
Updated: 2012-11-01
Packaged: 2017-11-17 13:37:25
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,726
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/552134
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/halfmoonsevenstars/pseuds/halfmoonsevenstars
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
      <p>Written for kitsunejin during the Fall Festival 2011 challenge on we_pimpin over on LJ.</p>
    </blockquote>





	the back row of your mind

**Author's Note:**

> Written for kitsunejin during the Fall Festival 2011 challenge on we_pimpin over on LJ.

“Ray, what the fuck are you doing?”

Ray doesn’t turn around at the sound of Brad’s voice; he’s too in love with looking at the reflection of their little conflagration on the water. The flames ripple and distort as they refract off the waves, and he smiles, exhaling a plume of mingled cigarette smoke and air, condensing into a little cloud in front of him. It’s really too cold to be outside in just a t-shirt and shorts, but he doesn’t give a fuck. It’s just him and Brad on the deserted beach with a cooler of beer and an incredibly illegal bonfire they’d started when it got dark. They’ll keep plenty warm, he knows.

“Looking at the water,” he says, and points to it: the whole Pacific Ocean, laid out in front of them, sparkling here and there under flashes of intermittent moonlight. “It’s really fucking pretty.”

Brad laughs softly, and before Ray can even react, they’re fitted together like peanut butter and jelly – or jalapeno and cheese – with Brad’s arms around his waist and his chin resting on Ray’s shoulder, the two of them ankle-deep in the surf. “Yeah, it is,” he answers. “I never really thought about it before, I guess.”

“You grew up here,” Ray points out, “so it’s more ordinary for you. But I’m still not used to it. Every single time I come to the beach, it’s a whole new fucking experience for me. Sort of like the first time you ride a bike, exciting and terrifying at the same time, and you don’t know you’re holding your breath until you’ve processed that you’re really, you know, _doing_ this.”

“Didn’t you tell me once that you never learned how to ride a bike ‘cause your family was so poor that you couldn’t afford one?” Brad asks, sounding slightly amused.

“Yeah, but what I just said still stands. Don’t fucking ruin this for me, I just came up with an awesome simile and I’m really proud of it,” Ray says.

“Okay, okay.” Brad turns his head to plant a kiss on Ray’s neck, just behind his ear. “Come back to the blanket with me. My feet are cold.”

“Really? That’s your whole argument for going back to the blanket? ‘My feet are cold’?” Ray teases him. “So much for the whole Iceman myth.”

“I can be the Iceman and still not want to be uncomfortable,” Brad protests.

“You big fuckin’ baby.” But Ray nudges him a little. “Let’s go back to the blanket and old Ray-Ray here’ll warm you up real good, okay?”

“You make that sound like a punishment.” But Brad’s grinning, and they sort of backwards-upright-crabwalk to the ratty old blanket they’d brought from home, falling onto it in a tangled heap. Somehow along the way, Ray manages to toss the cigarette, where it slowly extinguishes in the sand. That’s one nice thing about the beach, he thinks, it’s just one huge ashtray.

“This thing smells like motor oil,” Ray complains, even as he’s fumbling at the string on Brad’s board shorts, trying to undo it gracefully but getting it all knotted up in his eagerness.

“You bitch too much,” Brad says cheerfully, and slaps Ray’s hand away to untie the string himself without any interference. “It’s a good thing I don’t mind.”

“Mm-hm,” Ray says noncommittally. He manages to wait until Brad’s done, and satisfied that he won’t be impeded when he decides to do what he’s going to do, Ray climbs on top of Brad to give him a long, deep, and very satisfying kiss.

Brad’s only words when they finally come up for air are, “I think you could do better.”

“Yeah?”

“Yeah.”

“You want me to prove it or something?” Ray asks, already snaking his hand into the front of Brad’s board shorts.

“Would be nice.” Brad’s grin is very white, even in the flickering of the now-dwindling flames.

“I guess I can.” Ray sighs, as if the weight of the world is on his shoulders, and wraps his fingers around Brad’s cock, deciding that that he’s already done pretty well, if the fact that Brad’s harder than a diamond is any indication. Which he thinks it is.

Brad’s response is to arch his hips upward into Ray’s hand. Ray isn’t particularly surprised that Brad doesn’t have much else to say, though, and kisses him again, smoldering until their mouths together spark and finally ignite. They stay like that for who knows how long, Ray’s fist tight around Brad’s cock, the force of Brad’s hips sending shock waves into Ray’s forearm, their lips connecting over and over again. Ray knows he won’t be able to hold on any longer, but he’s sure as fuck gonna try, and he gasps Brad’s name, squeezing his eyes shut as tight as he can in the effort to stem the tide.

“Rachel?”

The voice cuts into her reverie like a knife, and Rachel yanks her hand out of her panties instinctively, knowing she probably looks guilty as _fuck_ right now. She’d rather keep her eyes shut, but forces them open anyway, to the sight of Brit looming over her.

“Um.” For pretty much the first time ever, she’s at a loss for words.

“Rachel, you kinky little bitch,” Brittany says, her lips curved in a knowing smile. “Were you starting the fun without me?”

“No?” Unfortunately for Rachel, it sounds far too much like a question, which results in the following.

“I think you were,” Brit answers, and climbs onto the bed, using her knees on either side of Rachel’s hips to pin her to the mattress.

“You do?” she squeaks.

“Mm-hm. And you know I don’t like it when you start without me, baby,” Brit says into Rachel’s ear, her blonde hair brushing along Rae’s collarbone.

“I didn’t think you would be home this early.” God, she’s so fucking ready right now, Rachel thinks that she might actually implode.

“Had to close down the shop. Dumbfuck contractors next door working on the old Panera hit a gas main and it won’t be fixed ‘til tomorrow.” Brit’s smile is that of a cat waiting to lap up a pool of spilled cream. “And just what was my Rae thinking about with her hand between her legs like a naughty little girl? You know you’re supposed to wait for me, sweetheart.”

“Nothing.” Rachel widens her eyes, hoping she looks innocent, especially with her own dark waves spilling around her shoulders. Sort of like Snow White, if Snow White were a punk rock chick instead of a princess without the ability to say no to door-to-door sales-hags.

“Nothing?” Brit echoes. “You sure ‘bout that?”

“Uh-huh.” Rae gives her sweetest smile, although she’s pretty sure it isn’t going to work.

It doesn’t. “See, ‘cause I think you _were_ thinking about something,” Brit says, and bends her head to nip at the hollow of Rachel’s throat.

A little moan bubbles up before Rae can stop herself. “Maybe?”

Brit makes short work of parting Rachel’s thighs, dragging the tip of her thumb along the very inside and coming away with a slickness on her finger from the outer edge of Rae’s panties. “Tell me, baby,” she murmurs. “I want to know, and if you tell me the truth, I promise that you won’t get in trouble.”

Rae can’t stand it anymore, and she blurts out, “I was fantasizing about us being men. We were fucking on a blanket on the beach, but I was on top of you.”

This earns her a kiss – a proper one on the lips, with a bit of teeth and a lot of tongue: the reward for perfect honesty. “That’s interesting. And how did we meet?”

“We were Marines,” Rachel answers. “But we let our contracts expire so we could be together. It was your idea to take the cooler of beer and the blanket with us that night.”

“It was at night, hm? You really _do_ build some elaborate fantasies.” Brit laughs, but kisses her again, this time sliding an exploratory finger into Rae’s panties.

Rachel doesn’t bother to stifle her gasp of surprise and pleasure when Brit’s finger reaches between her folds. “Uh-huh,” she breathes. “The moon only came out every so often. And we built a bonfire so we could see each other. And stay warm. But just a little one.”

“And we were fucking.” Brit tilts her head. “Should I take that as a hint?”

“I was actually giving you a handjob,” Rachel explains.

“So we weren’t really fucking?”

“We would’ve.” Rachel grins up at Brit, propping herself up on her elbows for a moment so that their mouths meet briefly, and she nips at Brit’s lush bottom lip before letting her head drop back down onto the pillow.

“Except I interrupted,” Brit says, licking her lips. “How rude of me.”

“Mm-hm,” Rae says, doing her best to look completely put out – although she’s finding it difficult to concentrate on that, what with Brit’s finger gliding in and out of her.

“You think you might let me make that up to you, sweetheart? I mean, I _did_ get out of work early. We could do something really special, considering you went to all the trouble of coming up with that scenario, and I came in and broke it up for you.”

“Like?” Rae stifles the urge to moan as Brit’s fingertip passes over her clit.

“I’d say this is a start.” Brit withdraws her hand, and Rae can’t stifle her whine of dismay in time, which makes Brit laugh. “Oh, baby, don’t you worry. I’m comin’ right back in there just as soon as I take care of a few things.”

“What would those things be?”

Brit doesn’t answer right away, instead swinging her legs around so that she’s sitting on the edge of the bed next to Rachel now, and removes her socks and shoes. Her jeans come next, followed by the work polo Brit had been wearing, and then her bra, all of these pieces of clothing just landing on the floor. Rae had at least managed to get everything of _hers_ in the laundry hamper. But that can wait, because at this time, Rae’s too fascinated by the view she has of Brit’s body.

Brit, for her part, climbs on top of Rachel when she’s finished stripping down to her own boy shorts, and nibbles Rae’s mouth some before saying, “Now we match.”

Rachel can’t help laughing. “Except for the tattoos,” she points out, using her fingers to trace along the tattoo on the small of Brit’s back.

Rae can’t see it, but she knows it’s there; Brit only has the one, a gothic monstrosity inscribed during a fit of rebellious pique the moment she turned eighteen. Rae, on the other hand, has three: a pair of black nautical stars just below her collarbone, and a sparrow on the upper part of her left arm.

“Except for the tattoos,” Brit agrees. She begins a series of slow, deep kisses starting from Rachel’s mouth, then down her neck, between her breasts, and all the way down her stomach, stopping just above the lacy waistband of Rae’s panties, pausing for a moment just to grin up at her.

“Somethin’ funny?” Rae asks, feeling the corners of her mouth tugging upwards into a smile of her own.

“Nah. I was just thinking about how much I love you,” is Brit’s answer, along with another kiss, this time further down.

Rae shivers in delight, both at the words and the kiss. “I love you too,” she says, and reaches down to run her fingers through Brit’s hair, loving how it’s so different from her own. Brit’s hair is stick-straight and fine, with a silken texture, whereas Rachel’s is thick and slightly wavy and a little coarse.

Brit tugs at Rachel’s waistband, a signal for Rae to lift her hips, which she does, gladly. The scrap of black sails onto the floor next to Brit’s jeans, but Rachel barely notices; she’s too focused on how her knees have suddenly turned into jelly and are about to betray her at any second. Her legs land back on the mattress with a soft thud, already parted in a direct invitation to Brit, who accepts immediately.

Brit flicks her tongue out for a quick preview of what’s to come, and murmurs, “You taste good.”

“Been eating pineapple,” Rae answers, burying her fingers in the sheets.

“I think that only works for guys, Rae.”

“Damn it, Wikipedia,” she mutters. “Last time I look to a fuckin’ crowdsource-edited website for sex advice.”

“Shut up, baby,” Brit says affectionately. She rests her hands lightly on Rachel’s hips, using her tongue to lick at the sweetness between Rae’s legs, flicking it over her clit.

Rachel’s only response is to gather more of the sheets in her fists, resisting the urge to buck her hips – the last time she did that, she’d nearly broken Brit’s nose.

“You can yell if you want to.” Brit gives her another lick.

Rae squirms as much as she’s about to allow herself right now. “Giving me permission?” Her voice comes out all ragged and breathy.

“More like an _order_.” All Rachel can see are Brit’s eyes, sparkling with good humor.

“Is that how we’re gonna play it, then?” Rae wants to know.

“I just thought, you like the idea of us being men in uniform so much…” Brit laughs, the sound muffled slightly, and she falls silent again as she resumes her attentions on Rae’s clit.

She’s _amazing_ with her tongue, and the addition of a couple of fingers sends Rachel rocketing into outer space. For the next few minutes all she can focus on is this, the feel of Brit’s loose hair brushing along her thighs, the soft rasp of her tongue, her tapered fingers working in and out. Rae isn’t sure how long she can hold on, but she tries as hard as she can, practically cutting off the circulation to her hands in the effort. She really can’t even form sentences at this point, but since Rachel wants Brit to know that it’s all five-by-five, she manages to emit a few encouraging noises from time to time. Not that it’s a particular hardship or anything – Rae’s squeaks and moans and gasps are entirely unfeigned.

And then Brit does that _swirling_ thing with her tongue, and Rae’s finished. Destroyed. Decimated. _Demolished._

Rachel falls back onto the mattress – flops back onto it, really – and closes her eyes, trying to catch her breath. Her hands slowly uncurl from the twisted sheets underneath her, and she knows that they’re covered with the imprints of a bunch of little creases and folds. It’s like her face after a night spent sleeping on a wrinkled pillowcase, only a million times better. Brit, in the meantime, drags the back of her hand across her swollen mouth and then scoots up to rest her head on Rachel’s stomach, letting her feet dangle off the end of the bed as she lies between Rae’s legs.

“Holy _shit_ , mama,” Rae says finally. “Where the fuck did you learn that?”

“Military school.” Brit grins.

“Funny.”

“No, I’m being serious,” she insists. “Mom and Dad shipped me off to a military boarding academy after I defaced a portrait of my high school’s founder.”

“You got sent away for drawing a mustache on someone?” Now Rae’s really interested, and she props herself up on an elbow to look down at Brit, using her free hand to trace lazy patterns along Brit’s collarbone.

“It was a little more than that.”

“Spill it, Colbert,” Rae says sternly.

Brit goes rather pink in the face as she mumbles something unintelligible.

“Can’t hear you. What was that again?”

Brit sighs. “I thought it would be funny to roll a J and super-glue it to the founder’s mouth. And give him pink hair. With a Sharpie.”

Rae starts laughing. It’s pretty undignified, what with the little snort that sneaks in, somehow.

“You are _the worst_ ,” Brit replies, unconvincingly.

“You love your Rae-Rae and you know it.”

“I do.”

They lie there together on the bed in silence for a few minutes before Brit breaks it with, “You still wanna play Marines?”

“You fuckin’ bet I do.”

“What was that?” Brit cups a hand to her ear.

“You fuckin’ bet I do, _Sergeant_.”

“That’s better.”


End file.
